... and in the beginning was the word
... and the word was something very much like “life”, which is what my name means. Unless you’re into Kabbalah - and how could you be if you’d seen the movie pi? - in which case, my name means I’m fucked. Funnily, it seems that most names leave you a bit fucked, and needing to spend some more money to find out precisely how fucked thou art. I did get a bit of a chortle out of their Madonna definition – apparently her old moniker has been leading her “to place considerable importance upon the material aspect of life”. Well, derr! I knew it had to be something big to justify the change to Esther –“there are artistic, creative abilities in this name that you could express through music or singing, or, in a practical way, through sewing or interior decorating”. We could get very lucky, and she could go nuts for the Florence Broadhurst any minute.
A further alternative of course, is that my name means "Eve", which it does if you know anything much about Greek and Hebrew, or type “zoe eve meaning” into google, which will take you here. (And more about that spooky uroborus some other time.)
This is all a very long winded way of getting to the fact that on the weekend I went to my friend Fred’s wedding, where I saw my first husband for the first time in about four or five years. And I got to meet his new wife, who I just loved. Not only is she warm hearted, interesting and beautiful, she bears a tattoo of the name of her best friend when she was 15 on her left breast. Yep, kids, another Zoe. Same name as their 5 year old’s invisible friend.
The goddess does not pay her debts in money.